


Because You're Worth It

by nerddowell



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M, knitting!Combeferre, that should be a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2013-11-02
Packaged: 2017-12-31 07:08:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1028752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerddowell/pseuds/nerddowell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(I'm so sorry for the title omg)</p><p>anyway Leah on Tumblr prompted</p><p>"an au where the amis go on vacation and have like a lodge or something rented and Enjolras and Grantaire have to share a room with a double bed and it’s all awkward :D oh and it could even be like a post-breakup pre-reunion situation if you’d wanna write fluff ;)"</p><p><i>if you’d wanna write fluff</i>, she says</p><p> </p><p>  <b><br/><i>fluff. me. hahahahahahahahahaha.</i><br/></b></p><p> </p><p>so this happened</p>
            </blockquote>





	Because You're Worth It

The second Combeferre suggests that maybe all Enjolras needs is to get away from it all for a while, his friend comes up with ten thousand excuses as to why that's the worst idea ever; he has so much college work to do, he's promised to volunteer at the library in the city centre because there's a politics week on and it's practically an invitation to yell about the unfairness of the world at people (okay, maybe not yell, because it's a library and he does have respect for some rules)... Combeferre gives him the look that even Grantaire, king of contrary, can't argue against, and Enjolras mumbles "Fine." into his vanilla soy latte and tries not to look too grumpy.

Meanwhile, across town, Bahorel is carrying a blind drunk and passed out Grantaire up to his and Courfeyrac's apartment, trying to ignore the smell of booze and vomit clinging to the artist's clothes. Ever since he and Enjolras broke up - again, he might add, because their relationship is nothing if not tempestuous and this is the fourth breakup in six months - Grantaire has started drinking himself into an early grave with even more vehemence than usual. Quite frankly, he's even scaring Bahorel, which means that Joly is probably locked away in his room hyperventilating into a paper bag with Bossuet. Courfeyrac sighs heavily when he opens the door and receives his gift, who promptly throws up all over him with another groan and his head sagging onto Courfeyrac's shoulder, and Bahorel pretends he can't see the tears sparkling in Courfeyrac's eyes. For all Courf is a chipper son of a bitch, way too cheerful to be human most of the time, he's not impenetrable to pain.

When Grantaire wakes up on the sofa at 6pm the following evening, Courf is sat opposite him, watching him with sad eyes. He looks even more like a kicked puppy than Jehan did the first (and so far, only) time he and Courf fought, and Grantaire rubs a hand over his eyes, trying to erase the image. It's not gone when he lowers his arm.

He doesn't want to talk about it. Enjolras had found his stash of booze, again, brandy kept in an aftershave bottle and wine stashed in every corner of the house he was hoping Enjolras didn't venture into; there had been another of their infamous rows, where Enjolras' voice would turn cold as ice and his tone sharper than a razor, and Grantaire had been drunk and insensible and just shouted abuse at him until the ice queen façade broke and Enjolras just gave up. And that scared him more than anything. Enjolras never gave up; Enjolras would fight and fight and fight, until his bones are broken and his lungs would burst, for what he believed in. And up until that point, he had believed in Grantaire, put his stupid blind faith into his boyfriend loving him enough to stop destroying himself. And Grantaire had let him down the way he was always going to, and Enjolras didn't cry. He didn't even look back when he left.

The dynamic in their group after that was, as you can imagine, awkward, to say the least. Grantaire would still sit at the back of meetings, drinking himself into a stupor and yelling dumb things to watch Enjolras' brow crease and his eyes flare with anger; but Enjolras no longer reacted with fury, disgust, or even indignation. He just got a broken, cracked, faraway look in his eyes as though he was seeing Grantaire through frosted glass, and he'd swallow and lose his train of thought and sit back down. The silence would be deafening, their friends waiting for the rest of the speech that wasn't coming, and Grantaire would stand up and take a last swig of his wine before bowing - "I've finally shut you up." - and walk out, and Enjolras would lay his head on the table and cry.

The pair of them each retreat into their ways of dealing with their pain. Grantaire crawls into a bottle and goes into hibernation, keeping up a constant flow of alcohol into his system until he can't see straight. Enjolras throws himself into work for his major, surrounding himself with Combeferre's political science textbooks and Jehan's ancient Greek philosophers. Their friends watch Grantaire hit the self-destruct button harder than ever and Enjolras work himself to death, wringing their hands and talking in hushed voices amongst themselves, until Combeferre comes up with an idea.

And that is how, two weeks later, they end up in cars heading for a small lodge in Montana. Grantaire is sleeping off yet another hangover in the backseat, his head on Bahorel's shoulder and drooling onto his tshirt whilst Jehan hums idly to himself and Courfeyrac tries to switch stations on the less-than-functional radio.

"You guys didn't tell him -" he asks tensely for the sixth time in the last two hours, and Bahorel repeats in a bored tone for the twelfth time in the last ten minutes, "No, Courf, he has no idea. Now keep your goddamn eyes on the road before you miss the fucking exit AGAIN."

Courfeyrac lets out the kind of tense sigh of relief Joly usually emits when he takes his temperature and finds it to be (as usual) normal. Jehan gives him a soft smile and starts making up couplets to himself, gazing out of the window at cloud formations and the ragged, trampled-looking wildflowers straggling along the edges of the highway.

"I wandered lonely as a cloud  
That floats on high o'er vales and hills..."

"Keep it up, you fucking nut,  
And I will punch you in the gut," Bahorel growls, having put up with Jehan's lyrical, rambling commentary for the entirety of the six-hour-long drive up to Great Falls, and Jehan bites his lip, hurt. Courfeyrac shoots Bahorel a glare in the rear-view mirror and tells Jehan not to worry, that William Wordsworth is one of his favourites too, and that he's more than happy to listen to Jehan talking in verse. The poet shrugs miserably, no longer in the mood, and Bahorel feels a slight twitch of guilt which he ruthlessly crushes before shrugging Grantaire off his shoulder and thumping him awake.

"Get up, R, we're here."

Grantaire groans, rubs his eyes with bruised knuckles, and cracks open an eye to stare around blearily, trying to locate where "here" is. He's just in time to catch sight of a head of tousled blond curls alighting from Combeferre's car, and he lets out a gasp as though he's just had all the breath kicked out of him. His face crumples, body folding in on itself like a black hole, and Courfeyrac takes a deep breath to steel himself for the fight he knows he's about to have.

"R -"

"Take me home," comes the quiet voice, sounding crushed. "Courf, take me home. Please."

"No," Bahorel growls before Courfeyrac has a chance to answer, "we've just arrived and I've suffered through a six fucking hours of pansy poetry bullshit to get you here, so there's no way we're going back now."

Courfeyrac smacks him on the shoulder as Jehan sniffs, and Bahorel mutters an apology, more for his tone of voice than for anything he said.

Grantaire looks up, his eyes bloodshot and glassy, and begs. "Please, Courf. Take me home. I can't be here - I can't be around him."

"Tough shit," Courfeyrac says brusquely, already pulling Grantaire's suitcase out of the car boot, "because you're rooming with him."

*

Combeferre sets Enjolras and Grantaire up in the master bedroom on the first floor, sandwiched between himself and Joly, and Courfeyrac and Jehan. Marius and Cosette are in the guest bedroom next to the kitchen, Feuilly and Bossuet are staying in the single rooms downstairs, and Bahorel is taking the couch in the living room since he was technically supposed to be elsewhere this weekend but ended up tagging along in order to avoid family responsibilities back in Washington. Enjolras accepts these arrangements with a sigh of defeat, knowing that Combeferre will have made everyone swear on pain of death not to accept swaps from either of the estranged lovers, and drags his bag into their room.

There's one bed.

This, he decides, is a step too far. Not because he objects to sharing a bed on principle - of course, being Grantaire's boyfriend came with the perk of someone to sleep next to at night - but because he and Grantaire had drawn a line under that side of their relationship when Enjolras walked out a month ago, and sharing a bed will just be too intensely awkward right now. He gets up and is just about to go in search of Combeferre when Grantaire arrives at the top of the stairs and he feels as though the bottom has dropped out of his stomach all over again.

"I hear we're rooming together," Grantaire mumbles, his voice scratchy and still slurring a little from sleep and the remnants of a full bottle of whiskey sloshing around in his bloodstream, and Enjolras nods dumbly.

"Don't worry, I'm going to talk to 'Ferre about a switch," he says, averting his gaze from those storm-blue eyes that still break him in half every time he looks up into them, and walks away a little faster than necessary before Grantaire can say anything else. He can feel the older man's gaze on his back long after he's disappeared down the corridor, and it takes a further few moments for him to hear footsteps as Grantaire lugs his bag into their shared room.

"'Ferre -" he begins, but Combeferre holds up a hand.

"No switches."

"Combeferre, don't be an ass. You're torturing him - us. Let me sleep on the couch and Bahorel can room with 'Taire -"

"Bahorel would rather lick his own armpit," Bahorel replies, not looking up from the game of Grand Theft Auto he and Bossuet are currently playing on Courfeyrac's PlayStation. "Or Grantaire's, for that matter."

"No switches," Combeferre repeats firmly with the smallest hint of smugness, and Enjolras gears up for a fight. Courfeyrac rolls his eyes and is about to join Combeferre's side before Jehan speaks up.

"Enjolras, you two need to work it out, whether you like it or not. None of us are going to move out of our rooms to accomodate how cowardly you two are, running away from the problem instead of facing up to it like adults. Basically, as I believe Courf would say, you two need to grow a pair and deal." He glances from Enjolras to Grantaire at the top of the stairs, whose mouth is hanging a little open in shock. Marius, stood beside him, looks at Jehan as though he's has grown two heads.

"What? I can be a badass when I want to," he says defensively, and Courfeyrac kisses his cheek.

"That you can, babe."

Jehan giggles and blushes, straight back to the slightly effeminate poet they all know, and the moment is broken. Courfeyrac tears open a bag of Doritos and puts it onto the coffee table before dropping down to watch the game of GTA, and Combeferre curls up on the seat and pulls a pair of knitting needles out of his bag, which he holds between his teeth.

"You're turning into a grandma, 'Ferre," Feuilly teases, "all this knitting." Combeferre gives him a withering look and unravels a ball of soft, petrol-blue wool before beginning to cast on. Soon, the living room relaxes into sounds of Combeferre's clicking needles, Bossuet and Bahorel making violent threats against one another on the game (cheered on by Courfeyrac and, bizarrely, Cosette, who is also stroking Marius' hair lovingly and making him purr like a contented kitten), and Jehan quietly singing along to Florence and the Machine on his iPod. Enjolras sits in the armchair beside the window, looking out at the city lights in the distance and trying not to wish he was back in Washington, curled up in his room with all his files and folders, working on the political science essay his professor set at last week's seminar. He was supposed to be here to get away from everything; the only problem being that what he most wanted to get away from was sitting upstairs on their bed.

*

Grantaire lays on his stomach on the bed and tries not to give into the temptation to open Enjolras' bag and pull out all of his clothes to make a blanket he can sleep under. He uses the same detergent as Grantaire (or rather, the same detergent as Cosette, who does most of his and Marius' washing at home), but somehow Enjolras' things always smell better. Probably because his apartment isn't always also full of the stink of booze and cigarette smoke. He eventually succumbs anyway and opens Enjolras' case to pull out the forest-green sweater Combeferre knitted him last Christmas, and he hugs it to his chest, nuzzling his face into the soft wool and breathing in Enjolras' smell. It makes his nose tickle and he wants to sneeze and to cry simultaneously. He can already feel tears prickling under his eyelids, and he sobs into Enjolras' jumper, curled up on the bed with his ex-boyfriend's suitcase open at the foot of the bed and humiliation burning deep in his chest.

Combeferre comes upstairs to fetch him to share the pizza Feuilly ordered before Courfeyrac eats it all, and finds him, asleep, Enjolras' jumper covering his face, his chest slowly rising and falling. He swallows, debating whether or not to wake him, before deciding to leave him to sleep and going back downstairs to ration Courf to three pieces of pizza, max, whilst he sections two slices of Grantaire's favourite deep-pan to microwave for when he wakes up. Courfeyrac complains vociferously until Jehan shares his small Hawaii'an with him, and Courfeyrac beams, kissing his nose.

"This is why I love you."

Bahorel snorts and rolls his eyes.

Courfeyrac gets his Breaking Bad box set out, and they sit down to watch the first disc whilst Joly complains about "Why can't we watch Grey's Anatomy?" and Bahorel tells him "Because Grey's Anatomy is for pussies." Combeferre tells them that they'll need to switch to Comedy Central for How I Met Your Mother anyway, and Courfeyrac throws the DVD remote at him.

Enjolras watches his friends banter on the floor with a dull gaze; true, he doesn't often join in conversations like this anyway, because the cogs in his brain are always whirling, thinking about the next protest and the next rally and the next cause he can champion; but now, all of his thoughts are centred on Grantaire and all the horrible things he could be doing to himself upstairs in the bedroom, and all he wants is a little distraction. Combeferre told them he was asleep; Enjolras just wishes he could actually believe it. He knows Grantaire well enough that him being asleep at 11pm is possible, but unlikely; him being passed out drunk and choking on his vomit was entirely more plausible. Unable to stop himself, he gets up and goes to check on him.

He finds Grantaire in the exact same state as Combeferre had. Enjolras' sweater over his face, one pale hand clutching the cuff as though Enjolras' wrist is actually inside it, and his breathing slow and heavy, occasionally hitching with the remnants of sobs. His heart softens along with his gaze, and he gently removes the sweater from his ex-lover's face, Grantaire's expression in sleep soft and almost childlike. His eyes, with dark, sleepless smudges underneath, are closed, thick, dark eyelashes brushing his cheeks; his brow is smooth, untroubled, the way it so rarely is when he's awake. Grantaire has more demons than Enjolras cares to count, and they've all left their mark somewhere, whether in the physical scars on his arms, the crease in his brow; or in the scars in his mind, the hopeless, crushing self-doubt, the nihilistic determination that he is worth nothing and no one, especially not Enjolras.

His face can be so beautiful, and life's cruelties have cracked its smooth edges and roughened its soft surface until this is what's left, a broken little boy who looks at peace with himself only in sleep. And Grantaire's head turns to press his nose into Enjolras' palm, nuzzling his cheek into the soft caresses, and his eyes flutter open, one by one, inhaling a shaky breath. Enjolras tries to pull his hand away, but Grantaire grasps it tight and refuses to let him, pressing the soft skin of his wrist to his lips and brushing a gentle kiss against the thudding pulse. Enjolras is shaking, his eyes closed, trying to hold back the tears coming thick and fast to well up along his lash line, and Grantaire sits up, tossing the jumper aside to pull him into his arms.

They sit on the bed for twenty, even thirty minutes, just holding each other, before Grantaire speaks.

"I'm sorry."

Enjolras hates that about Grantaire, the way he keeps apologising, over and over, when he's done nothing wrong. It infuriates him, because it reminds him just how low Grantaire's self-esteem is, that he thinks everything is his fault. And Enjolras isn't doing enough to help stop it, even though he's working the hardest he ever has to make Grantaire believe that he loves him. It feels like his heart is going to burst whenever he looks at Grantaire, partly out of love but also out of the intense, biting agony he feels knowing that his lover thinks every "I love you" is a platitude to soothe his fears of abandonment, of not matching up to Enjolras' expectations. And Enjolras knows that he holds Grantaire to impossibly high expectations, because he holds himself to the same level, and he only pushes so hard because he knows Grantaire can do it.

"I know." He hates himself. He can never give an inch, can he?

"I fucked up."

"Yes." Still all monosyllabic answers, the rush of thoughts in his head too incoherent to put into words on his tongue. An impossible jigsaw puzzle. Grantaire is watching him with those deep blue eyes, the same colour as the sweater Combeferre is knitting him downstairs, and Enjolras takes a deep breath through his nose, laying a hand on Grantaire's cheek and willing him, this time, to open his deaf ears and listen.

"You're worth it."

Immediately, the protests start. Enjolras gets that crushing, sinking feeling, and he wonders why he ever bothered. Of course Grantaire isn't going to have changed just because they split up. If anything, he probably got worse; Enjolras knows that Grantaire considers him to be the only thing he has worth living for. And sometimes, that selfishness drives him crazy; to put this gigantic burden on Enjolras of knowing that if he steps one toe out of line - if he says or does the wrong thing unthinkingly, which happens far too often because he's even worse than Courfeyrac for putting his foot in his mouth under pressure - Grantaire could take it to heart and do something stupid. He loves Grantaire to distraction, no matter how damaged he is, and to see Grantaire doubt that - doubt that Enjolras and all of their friends, the family he's got left, love him, that their worlds would just keep on turning as though he'd never existed, as though he's just an invisible ghost on the edge of the group that nobody notices enough to care about -  _hurts_. It fucking breaks his heart.

"Listen, you dumb fucking bastard," he groans, sounding just like Courfeyrac, his fingers tangling in Grantaire's wild curls and forcing him to  _fucking well look at him when he's trying to hammer this point through your thick skull_  - "I love you. And if one person isn't enough - if I'm not enough for you - then so do Courf and Combeferre and Marius and Feuilly and Bossuet and Joly and Éponine and Cosette and probably even Bahorel if I rough him up a bit first to make him admit it."

Grantaire's eyes are damp, and he shakes his head, and Enjolras feels the urge to grab it and bang it against the wall swamp him for a moment, until the words coming out of Grantaire's mouth destroy it entirely.

"You've always been enough for me." Of course, after that, he ruins the moment. Again.

"I just don't think I'm enough for you."

Enjolras' temper flares.  _Every fucking time_.  _Every time_  he and Grantaire seem to get anywhere towards improving his self-esteem, Grantaire opens his mouth and they're back to square one again. It makes him want to break something.

 "Fine. Sit on your fucking sorry ass then. Wallow in it. You don't give a shit about any of us, do you? Because you  _like_  being miserable. It's easier than giving a shit. You drink because you don't want to care about anything, because you're too fucked up to let yourself believe that you can be happy without needing to pay the world back. Your self-esteem is too fucking low to even look at me sometimes. You just put me up on that fucking pedestal because you think I'm so perfect, that I'm some kind of angel, and it's sick, okay? I'm human and I always fucking have been, and all I'm going to do by standing up here on your pedestal is fall because I can't do what you want me to. And I'm fucking done, Grantaire, I've had enough. I can't deal with this all the time and I hate you for dumping it on me and it kills me to say it because  _I fucking love you_ , okay? You are  _the most precious thing I have!_ "

He's shouting the last part, tears streaming down his face, and Grantaire is just sat on the bed looking stunned, his eyes wide and his face pale. He's not even responding, which makes Enjolras feel even worse, if that's possible. "Say something," he begs.

"I'm sorry," Grantaire repeats, and Enjolras lets out a scream of frustration.

There's footprints coming up the stairs, probably Combeferre coming to see if they've murdered each other yet, but Enjolras leaps off the bed and slams the door, kicking Grantaire's case against it to hold it shut. He's breathing hard, pain in his eyes and in his lungs as he tries to haul oxygen into his body. Grantaire is still staring at him, although there are tears rapidly pooling in his eyes too. It's the only response Enjolras is getting.

"Please," he begs finally, his voice hoarse, exhausted. He feels so weak he can hardly stand up straight, every muscle he has aching. "Please, Grantaire."

The artist looks up at him, his cheeks damp, tear tracks running through the slight grimyness of paint and general shit that Grantaire always seems to be covered in, and he says it again.

"I'm sorry."

Enjolras wants to collapse. His vision threatens to go black. It feels like the whole room is just narrowing down to a point inside his head, swallowing him up, and his body sags, what feels like all the life just soaking out of him into the carpet.

"I'm sorry for doing this to you. I'm sorry for saying sorry so much." His mouth curves up into a weak smile, and Enjolras lets out a wet snort of laughter. Grantaire pulls him down onto the bed and presses a soft, chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth, allowing himself to cry, his eyes full of emotion. Enjolras finds himself sobbing into Grantaire's shoulder, fingers clinging onto the thin tshirt, and he breathes out shakily.

"I just - I j-just - I j-just want you to b-believe me."

"I know," Grantaire says, equally unsteadily. He wipes his eyes on the sleeve of his jumper before putting his arm back around Enjolras. "I know you do."

"I love you, you piece of shit," Enjolras growls into his ear, and Grantaire lets out a laugh.


End file.
